Phantom Limb
by Bleu November
Summary: Full disclosure: I stopped watching the show after 3x05 because I knew that the writers would not give Mary the chance to properly mourn Francis before throwing her at another man...and I NEEDED to see her mourn because, quite frankly, *I* am still mourning. So here is my take on Mary's journey, from her POV, as she both holds on and learns to let go. (In progress)
1. Chapter 1

"...I'd never be able to turn over in bed again without feeling that body beside me, not there but tangible, like a leg that's been cut off. Gone but the place still hurts."

\- Margaret Atwood, _Life Before Man_

* * *

 _…forgive me.  
_ _If you no longer live,  
_ _if you, beloved, my love,  
_ _if you have died,  
_ _all the leaves will fall upon my breast,  
_ _it will rain on my soul both night and day,  
_ _snow will burn within my heart,  
_ _I shall walk with frost and fire and death and snow,  
_ _and my feet will want to march to where you lie sleeping,  
_ _but I shall go on living,  
_ _because above all things  
_ _you wanted me unconquerable…_

\- Excerpt from "La Muerte" by Pablo Neruda

* * *

I was still holding your hand when they came for you.

I have no idea how long I sat crumpled upon the forest floor, stroking your fingers, your face, your hair. You had grown pale, Francis—so pale—but the fingers that I held in mine were not yet cold.

How could you truly be gone when I still felt your warmth?

Then the others had arrived, shuffling slowly through the fallen leaves and petals as they came to take you home one last time. I did not even glance up to acknowledge them, so fearful was I to lift my eyes from you for even a moment. Only your mother dared to approach me, and she did so with cautious footsteps, as if I were a wounded animal who might easily be frightened into hurting myself.

Which I suppose I was, in a way.

"Mary," she said gently. "That isn't Francis. He's gone."

Of course you were gone. I had seen the light fade from your eyes, known the _you_ -ness of you was lost to me forever. But though the heart that had loved me had ceased beating, the body that had loved me remained. The arms that had comforted, the hands that had soothed, the shoulders that had shared my burdens without complaint…they were still there, still where I could touch them.

And your hair, Francis—those lovely golden curls which suited you far more regally than any crown—was still just as soft and just as silky and just as beautiful as it had been when I had run my fingertips through it and clutched it in great handfuls when we made love by the lake only an hour before.

Only an hour…

I did not want to hear your mother say that it was _just a body_. I did not want to hear _anyone_ say it. Even now, I crave the weight of it lying against me. Just a body?

No.

It had been yours and I had loved it as I had loved you.

"I can't let him go."

I heard the rustle of her skirts as she had knelt down into the leaves beside me. "Then hold onto me," she whispered, and she had sounded so kind, Francis.

How odd that our love for you has driven your mother and I apart just as much as it has brought us together, and how odd that all of that was swept aside in instant in the wake of this tearing, unimaginable loss. At that moment, she was the only person in the world capable of understanding even a modicum of my pain, and when she had opened her arms to me, I knew her offer to be sincere.

I wish you had been there to see it, darling.

I wish you were here to see a great many things.

It was only after she managed to wrest me away from you that the others had stepped forward to lift you up and carry you away. I watched the procession through streaming eyes, and had your mother not held onto me in a grip like a vise, I know I would have leapt to my feet and chased after you. I think I may have called out to you once, but I do not know for certain. What I _do_ remember is how weightless you had seemed as the men had raised you up, _up_ into the air, and how dark and angry the blood had stood out on your shirt. There was a dry leaf from the forest floor caught within the tangle of your curls, and I had wanted to cry out for someone to brush it away, to go find your splendid green tunic and your magnificent robe, to please— _please_ —not send you back to the castle covered in blood with dirt in your hair like an animal that had been slaughtered in the hunt.

 _Please_.

And perhaps I would have done, if only I had been able to breathe.

Your mother did not release me until they had carefully wrapped you within a long linen sheet and deposited you gently inside the horse-drawn litter which had been brought from the castle to retrieve you. All of this I saw, standing mute and stricken while your mother kept a supportive arm firmly about my waist. It was only as she had attempted to steer me toward the royal carriage that I sprang back to life, planting my feet firmly in the soil and refusing to budge.

"We must go, Mary," she prodded me, her voice both understanding and stern. "Into the carriage now. It is time to leave."

"I will ride in the litter," I said hoarsely.

"Mary—"

"I am going with him, Catherine."

"My child—"

"I will not be ordered by you or by anyone!" I snapped, and there had been a hysterical edge to my voice that prompted several of the guards to eye me warily. With effort, I gulped past the lump in my throat and made sure that my next words were clear and unyielding. "I am a queen in my own right," I said, with as much steel and dignity as I could manage. "I take orders from no one, and I am telling you now, Catherine, that I am riding back to the castle in that litter. So unless you are prepared to employ physical force against me, I suggest you stand aside and allow me to return home with my husband."

She had narrowed her eyes at me as if to appraise my determination, then released me without further protest or comment. "As you wish, my dear. The carriages will follow behind you, should you need anything."

I nodded stiffly, like a marionette on a string, then turned to clamber up into the litter just as another small detachment of guards reemerged from the depths of the forest. Squinting into the waning light, I saw that one of them lagged slightly behind the others, wielding a bulky fabric bundle in his hands, and I leaned out to observe it more clearly.

When the guard had finally stepped forward, his eyes—so full of pity—could hardly meet mine as he held the bundle out like an offering. "We found these down by the lake shore, your Grace," he announced somberly. "What would wish us to do with them?"

I swallowed thickly, my throat burning with fire. There, stacked in his arms and folded clumsily, had been my velvet cape and your exquisitely embroidered tunic and fur-trimmed cloak. Atop them glittered a small tangle of precious metal and gemstones: a golden coronet, a pair of bejeweled earrings, a shining signet ring.

Your ring.

"I will take them," I told him, my voice trembling. With a wordless nod, he had passed the pitiful burden to me as I stretched out my arms from beneath the canopy of the litter, and by the time I had settled back inside, he was gone.

Though I had fought for that final journey home together, I soon realized that the sight of you wrapped within your makeshift shroud was simply more than I could bear. With quaking hands, I shook open your cloak and draped it tenderly over your chest, then pulled the pale linen cloth away from your face so that I could see you again.

So that I could memorize you.

So that I could commit you to memory and in fifty years still be able to trace the freckles under your eyes.

Your hand had been cool in mine as I lifted it free and slipped your ring onto your finger. I then held onto it, stroking my thumb across your knuckles as I had always done, just as the horses began to move.

The dusky late afternoon air was full of the crunch of leaves and the rhythmic creaking of carriage wheels. Before long, a chill wind had begun to blow, a harbinger of the colder days that would soon be upon us and a bitter reminder that my seasons with you had come to this unimaginable end. With some maneuvering, I managed to shrug my cape over my shoulders while never once letting go of your hand, so careful to arrange the folds of fabric so that they concealed the stain of your blood on my dress.

Nothing felt real.

I tried to block out everything except the feeling of your hand in mine, the sight of the last glints of the fading sunlight as it struck gold upon your hair. For the moment, they had been just enough to keep the terror at bay as I had brought your hand to my lips and kissed it tenderly.

As I had said to you for the last time on this earth, "We're going home, my love."


	2. Chapter 2

They took you from me as soon as we returned to the castle.

The journey back had been long and almost…peaceful. That sounds strange, I know. After the sun had set, the evening moon had risen and cast you in a silver-white glow that camouflaged the otherworldly pallor of your skin, and as the litter had swayed its way along the dusty roads, you had looked as you had always looked whilst lying in the moonlight.

Beautiful. Ethereal. Like something fallen to earth by mistake.

The tumult that had awaited us at the castle was both unbearable and surreal. There were guards, burning torch lights, people tumbling out of carriages and barking commands. Abruptly, the horses had been jerked to a halt, sending me toppling sideways, all the while still holding your hand. Hardly had the litter gone still before I was forcibly lifted from its interior, my cloak falling from my shoulders and my eyes catching only one last brief glance of your face before someone had leaned inside and respectfully shrouded it once more.

"Wait!" I had cried out, wrestling myself from the arms of the guard who had yet to set me upon my own two feet. "Stop!"

Your mother was at my side in an instant. "Mary, you must be quiet," she had hissed, her voice low and urgent. "You will draw attention, and it is absolutely necessary that we get Francis into the castle before any of the nobles see."

At those words, I let out a shrill, maniacal laugh. You were dead and she was worried about _the nobles_? Had she gone mad? Had the _entire world_ gone mad? " _See_?" I echoed in disbelief. "See _what_ , Catherine? That he is dead? _That my husband is dead_? Why, do you think you can hide it? Do you think—"

Her nails, sharp as talons, had dug painfully into the tender flesh above my elbow and silenced me abruptly. "Enough, Mary! _Enough_. Do _you_ think we can allow him to be seen like this?" she broke in fiercely. "The king of France? Bleeding? _Murdered_? Do you want a _war_ , Mary?"

 _A war?_ My head spun in dizzying, disjointed circles. But while my mind could only form fragmented and muddled thoughts, your mother's had already been busy calculating every conceivable fallout that might result from your death and plotting the means to combat it.

You are not surprised though, are you? Of course not. I can almost see you, clenching your teeth and shaking your head in both frustration and admiration. _My mother_ , you would mutter, and I would laugh because those two words and the look on your face would say it all.

I miss that face.

I miss all your faces.

Her grip on me had remained unrelenting as she turned her face up to the guard who hovered solicitously at her shoulder. "Take the king to the dungeons of the South Tower and clean his wounds," she ordered brusquely. "Start a fire in the steward's quarters and burn any clothing marked with blood. I will send a few of my personal servants to assist you directly. You are to allow no one else to see. Am I clear?"

The guard had bowed his head in respect and acquiescence. "Yes, madam," he replied. "Just as you say. I will gather some men to transport him there immediately."

Her nod of acknowledgment had been stiff, and I wondered if anyone but me could see the cracks beginning to chip away at her calm façade. "Do so, now, quickly. I will come to you myself as soon as I am able."

Having thus been issued his commands, the guard had pivoted away from us, but before your mother could gather up her skirts and usher me away yet again, I flung out a desperate hand to clasp his arm.

I had a request of my own.

He froze in his tracks at the touch of my fingers, and his eyes had dropped to where they rested upon the padded sleeve of his uniform before flickering quizzically to my own. "Yes, your Grace?"

"What is your name?" I asked gently.

He blinked at me. Clearly, it was not a question that he was used to being asked. "My name?"

"Yes. What is it?"

He had shifted his weight from one leg to the other, his manner both diffident and awkward. "Auguste, your Grace," he mumbled finally.

"Auguste."

"Yes."

"You and your men, please…" I squeezed my eyes shut against the image of you being borne, lifeless and pale and with a leaf clinging to your hair, away from me in the forest, and I had to pause to suck in a steadying breath. "Please be careful with him."

Even in the moonlight, I had seen his face soften with pity and understanding. "Of course, your Grace."

From the corner of my vision, I had watched as the litter drew noiselessly out of sight on its way to the South Tower, a razor blade to my breaking heart. "It's just that he is…" My voice trailed off in anguish as my chin began to tremble violently.

 _Francis, don't leave me._

"…so very precious to me."

Auguste had smiled faintly, his gaze full of compassion. "I know he is. We…we all know is. Rest assured, your Grace. The king—your husband—is safe in our hands."

"Thank you," I had whispered, and for a moment I could have sworn that I saw some of the welling tears in my eyes mirrored wetly in his own.

I put up no resistance as your mother once again linked an arm about my waist and steered me into the thin stream of people weaving its way into the castle. I did, however, cast one last look back at Auguste, who inclined his head toward me in solemn reverence.

I had issued my final command as Queen of France.


	3. Chapter 3

Your mother knew better than to immediately allow me back into our bedchamber.

If given my way, I would have headed straight there and barricaded the door, which seems like such a pointless thing to do. Surrounding myself among your things so soon after you had gone—would that not have been unbearably painful? Obviously, for it is still painful now. In hindsight, though, there is very little concerning my actions on that first terrible night that bears up under the scrutiny of logic. My brain had simply chanted _I will go back to our room I want to go back to our room_ in the same manner that a child who is in the midst of horrifying nightmare will to break through the dim layers of unconsciousness to tell himself _I am dreaming. I'm only dreaming._

It would be easy to make the excuse that I wished to be alone with my grief, but that would not exactly be true. I could not admit this to myself then and can hardly even bring myself to acknowledge it now, but there was some very real part of me that was convinced I would open the door to our bedchamber and find you there, alive and waiting.

Ridiculous, isn't it? You had _died_. I knew that. I _knew_ that. And yet…Were we not taught to pray to a God of miracles, my love? Were we not raised from our infancy to believe that He is both Almighty and good? Did the priests not teach us of water turned to wine, lame men made to walk, blind eyes restored to sight?

 _Did He not raise Lazarus from the dead?_

Does having faith in Him not also mean having faith in these inexplicable feats of awe and wonder?

I believe. I have faith.

As did you.

 _If He has performed such miracles before_ , some small voice within me had reasoned, _who is to say that He will not perform them again?_

Was it really so foolish of me to hope that—somehow, some way—I might walk into our bedchamber and discover you there fast asleep, an open book splayed across your chest, just as I had done so many times in the past?

I think your mother may have sensed this irrational hope within me.

I think perhaps she wanted to spare me the disappointment.

Instead of retiring to that space which you and I had shared for far too short a time, I had found myself numbly putting one foot in front of the other as I was swept along in the small tide of confidantes making their way toward your mother's apartments, while she—never once loosening her grip on me—rattled off orders at lightning-speed.

It was impressive, actually. I was barely functioning and she appeared as in command as she had ever been.

Her head groom, Thibaut, scurried forward the moment he spotted us. He had hardly straightened from his perfunctory bow before he declared, breathlessly and eagerly, "Tell me what it is that you require, Madame, and I will see that it is done."

Your mother gave no preface to her subsequent statements, and I had understood then that she must have briefed him in some way before leaving the castle. "The king has been taken to the dungeon of the South Tower to be washed and dressed," she told him, speaking under her breath so that none but he could hear. "I need you to go there immediately to supervise."

Thibaut's expression was grave. "Of course, Madame."

"Take Gustave and Serge, as well. The guards I have already dispatched are expecting you. No one else is to be present, do you understand?"

"Yes."

" _No one_."

'Understood."

Your mother had lifted her hand to press her fingertips wearily against her temple just then, and I could not help but notice them tremor as she did so. The effort needed to maintain her stoicism was costing her greatly, in spite of her refusal to acknowledge it. "I will join you myself as soon as I put things in order here, and then we may proceed with the final preparations for the body."

 _The body_.

How could it be just a body when it had been my home?

My refuge?

I had wanted to clap my hands over my ears and scream, but instead something in her statement snagged my attention and I found myself parroting her last words. "Final preparations for the body?"

"It is nothing for you to worry yourself over, my dear," she assured me, but her expression had been guarded. "There are merely certain things that must be taken care of before we can move forward with the funeral arrangements."

Certain _things_.

A cold trickle of dread wormed its way into my entrails, and when I spoke, my voice came out hollow and flat.

"No."

At this response, your mother and Thibaut had both turned to me with eyebrows raised in mild surprise.

"No?" she echoed.

" _No_."

She narrowed her eyes at me. "No, what?"

I remained stubbornly silent, not because I did not want to speak, but because I did not trust myself to.

"I am sorry, Mary, but I am afraid I am not sure what it is that you are objecting to, exactly."

"I was there," I said quietly.

"Where?"

"The abbey at Notre Dame des Hautes-Bruyeres." My voice quavered. "Remember? I was there."

My words prompted a pained understanding to flood across her face. "Oh, Mary," she had sighed. "Dear child, you must understand—"

"I will not let you do it, Catherine," I cut in fiercely. "I _won't_."

I do not have your mother's cunning, Francis. I never have. What I _do_ possess, however, is a will of iron—one that rivals even her own—and memories of an afternoon that had come and gone more than a decade before had awakened it with a vengeance.

You and I were mere children on that day when the royal entourage had stopped to break its journey at the imposing double monastery in Saint Remy l'Honoré. Your father, who had always possessed an interest in architecture, had enlisted the abbot to take him and your mother on a tour of the nave while Diane had, as always, paced a few discreet footsteps behind. None of that had interested me or you, of course, and we soon grew bored enough to abandon decorum completely and chase one another about the cloisters.

Your longer legs always gave you an advantage during such frolics, and so when I had slipped in the grass just as you unexpectedly ducked back inside the dim recesses of the abbey, I thought for certain that I would never be able to catch up with you.

I was wrong.

After dashing back into the church in hot pursuit, it had only been a matter of moments before I discovered you standing within one of its side chapels, completely transfixed as you gazed upon an immense, ornately carved urn that rested on a massive pedestal. The strange expression on your face as you did so had been impossible to read.

"What is it?" I had asked, all thoughts of shoving you and tagging you _it_ wiped away in an instant by some vague, unexplained anxiety. I had raked my eyes over the urn's decorated surface, but could tell nothing other than that the craftsmanship was exquisite, the marble so fine that even my childish eyes could sense its worth.

It looked… _royal_.

"It's my grandfather," you murmured. There had been nothing particularly alarming in your tone or your words, but your eyes had been troubled.

I giggled, feeling awkward and not understanding. "But your grandfather is buried in St. Denis, Francis," I had reminded you. "Like all the other kings of France."

"Yes, you are right," a deep voice behind us agreed. "The both of you, actually."

Having not heard his approach, the sudden appearance of your father nearly sent us jumping out of our skins. I had scarcely had time to recover my composure, however, before he launched into an extemporaneous lecture on the funereal rites and traditions of the kings of France. That man rarely missed an opportunity to impart some sort of lesson, and so it had been with a mixture of morbid curiosity and horror that I listened as he spoke of monuments and effigies and, finally, the practice of removing the sovereign's heart from his body. This time-honored ritual had been done, he had explained, for centuries, and was the reason we had both been correct in our statements about the late king's remains. His body, like those of the other kings of France, rested in St. Denis; it was his heart that lay within the abbey's marble ossuary.

Throughout the entirety of this little speech, I had kept my eyes fixed upon the urn, though I must admit that it no longer appeared quite so beautiful to my eyes once I realized that it contained the shriveled heart of a dead monarch. I had taken no notice of the moment when you had slipped away on silent feet, and it was only when I finally allowed myself to avert my attention that I realized you were gone. Yet again, I found myself setting off in search of you, only with much less spring in my footsteps than when I had chased you into the abbey just minutes before.

I was loathe to admit it then, but the images painted by your father's words had unsettled and frightened me.

When I finally found you, you were standing beneath a row of stained glass windows and gazing up at them with reverent, wide eyes. You were completely unaware of my presence, but when I had immediately opened my mouth to call out to you, some instinct within had given me unexpected pause.

 _Stop_.

 _Do not speak_.

 _Just_ _ **look**_.

It had been one of those gloriously incandescent spring days, the type that warm the blood and make radiant every living thing. The sunlight, as it had poured through the abbey's arched windows, was fractured by the colored panes of glass into shades of emerald, amber, ruby, and sapphire. As you stood there within the glow of those kaleidoscope pools of light, it had looked to me as if the lines of your face were gilded in the finest gold, and every last inch of you had been awash with luminous fragments of rainbow.

My hand had fluttered at my throat.

We had spent the majority of that morning squabbling like monkeys. Your father, believing that the public would find it pleasing to see their future king and queen in one another's company as the royal caravan rolled past, had practically forced us into the same carriage despite our protests. There was no doubt that he had been right, however, for barely an hour had gone by before our arms were so sore from waving that we could hardly lift them. It was not an illustrious start for a journey. The two of us had quickly grown bored and irritated and, of course, had taken it out on one another. I infuriated you by eating the leftover portion of mince pie that you had been saving to enjoy later in the afternoon; you earned my wrath by purposely stepping upon my doll Lucy. When I had complained about the ruts in the road, you teased me and called me a baby, which had prompted me to laugh heartily when the wheels slipped into one and sent your head knocking soundly against the back of the seat. Over the course of the morning, we had rolled our eyes and stuck out our tongues and picked at one another so much so that our exasperated nurses had threatened to hurl the both of us out the window.

That was how it so often was with us back then. We were so, _so_ young.

It breaks my heart to think of how young we were.

Even then, however, I was not immune to you. Seeing you standing there, illuminated in the brilliance of all that jewel-colored glass…It did not matter that you had stepped on Lucy or teased me or even that you had dropped a toad in my lap the day before.

You were beautiful, and you were mine.

Finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, I had asked, "Why did you sneak away?"

You refused to meet my gaze and continued to stare up into the light. "I didn't sneak away. My father was speaking only to you. He told me of those things long ago."

I cautiously tiptoed forward until I was standing by your side. "Does it bother you?" I whispered.

You had shrugged at that, your thin shoulders moving loosely within the fabric of your doublet. Back then, the tailors were always cutting your clothing a trifle larger than necessary in the misguided hope that your slenderness would suddenly give way to a more robust figure. It made me angry, even though I understood that their intentions were well-meaning. After all, you knew you were thin; there was no need to reinforce it. As it was, you were rather self-conscious about it, just as you were self-conscious about your ears and your prettiness and the way your legs pinwheeled in all directions whenever you took off running.

"You heard my father. It's tradition. Even if it _did_ bother me, what will that matter once I am dead?" Here you had attempted a wry smile, only to have it quickly dissolve as you gulped nervously and dropped your eyes to the floor. "I just don't like the thought of it, that's all. I rather like being in one piece."

There had been something so unspeakably precious about you as you stood there in your slightly-too-big doublet with your worried eyes and your rumpled hair. You looked so fragile, and yet I never doubted even then that the safest place for me on this earth was with you. I had spent my earliest years in constant flight from the English armies who sought to steal me from my kingdom, and I understood all-to-well that it was only the promise of your hand that had saved me from a lifetime lived in fear.

Then, as now, you always, _always_ placed yourself firmly between me and disaster.

It rips my heart to know that I was unable to do the same. On that long ago day, however, I had no way of knowing just how miserably I would fail at it.

"I won't let them do it."

My sudden and passionate declaration had taken you by surprise. "What do you mean?"

"I mean just that—I won't let them do it. I'll make them cut out my heart before I'll let them take yours. I'll smuggle you out and onto a ship and bury you in Scotland if I have to."

You had laughed then, a _real_ laugh. "God save me from such a fate."

I had laughed, too, happy and pleased to see the smile back on your face. "You don't believe that I am serious, do you?"

"I always believe you," you had said, a teasing glimmer in your eyes. "I'm too scared not to. You're ferocious."

I suppose it was that ferocity that had your mother regarding me with such quiet speculation in the wake of my outburst on the night of your passing, and I could practically see the cogs in her mind turning as she assessed which line of reasoning might best appeal to me. Finally, she had placed her fingertips gently upon my arm and said, "Francis has always known of this, Mary. He would expect it."

"No."

"Your heart is breaking, I know. As is mine. But we musn't forget what is expected of us—of _all_ of us—during this time. We are royals. Ceremony is important. _Tradition_ is important."

"Some tradition," I scoffed bitterly.

"Tradition represents continuity, my dear. It shows the people that there is order even in the bleakest and most chaotic of times."

Just the night before, I had fallen asleep as you cradled me to your chest, your arms forming a protective shield between me and the outside world. Beneath my ear, your heart had been a drumbeat lulling me to sleep, a strong and steady signal that you were safe, that you had come back to me, that I had not lost you.

It did not matter that it had stopped. I could not bear the thought of separating it from you.

"No. I made a promise to him long ago."

"I think he would understand, Mary."

"We're talking about his heart, Catherine." I cursed myself as my voice began to wobble pitifully. "His _heart_."

"Child," she murmured, "it won't bring him back. Whatever you choose to do or not do from this moment on…there is nothing that will change that."

I had pressed my knuckles against my lips to hold back the sob that I feared would tear me apart if I were to release it. It was several moments before I finally drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and when I was able to speak again, my voice was firm and resolute. "I have already broken too many of the promises that I made to my husband. I will not break this one, even if he is no longer here to hold me to it. Let me make one thing clear: You will make no decisions concerning his funeral or his remains or even what robes he is to be buried in without first consulting me. Do you hear me? He was their king and your son, but he was _my_ _husband_ , Catherine. Do not cross me on this."

"Very well," she had relented, continuing to eye me carefully as she then snapped her fingers at Thibaut. "Have some wine sent up from my personal cellar before you leave," she told him. "I have a feeling we will need the fortification."

Once the servants had been ushered away, all eyes within the small gathered party had turned to us, expectantly awaiting their instructions.

Their solemn gazes had filled my stomach with lead. They wanted guidance.

At that moment, they no longer had a king in whom to seek it.

I was dreadfully afraid. "What happens now?"

Your mother had squared her shoulders as if bracing for an attack. "Now, Mary, comes the second hardest task one must endure after losing someone so dearly loved," she said quietly.

"And what is that?" I had asked as I swallowed past the lump of sorrow and fear in my throat.

There were tears swimming in her eyes as she had reached out to lace her fingers through mine. "We must let it be real."

Then together, hand-in-hand, we had turned to face the world without you.


End file.
